Doves Cry Again
by Pinkie Tuscadaro
Summary: My favorite story line with the most lovely, injured character. Craig's abuse by Albert, Joey's point of view.
1. Chapter 1

I could feel his tears on my shirt. I could feel his face, hot and working, as he sobbed into my shoulder. Even as I hugged him I could feel him pulling away. Craig. My step-son. It was funny, I kind of felt that whatever tenuous bond we had was broken when his mother died. My wife. My beautiful Julia. Because when she died I stopped seeing him. I saw him at the funereal, an 11 year old boy in a stiff suit, his eyes red and puffy from crying. But he wasn't crying that day. No. He kept it all in.

I had seen him at Snake and Spike's house, and I saw Emma and Manny swooning over him and I had to smile. But I knew his father, and had just spoken to him that day at the car lot. Albert. Arrogant and entitled. Able to make you feel small with a slight cock of his head. I never understood how Julia had married him in the first place. And he told me he did not want Craig to see Ang or me and, well, that was that. Craig lived with him and as step-father with a dead wife I had no rights to him, no say over what he could do or who he could see.

But I saw in his eyes this hurt, this trying to pretend that things were okay. He told me it was okay for him to be there, at the first mention of his father he said, "he's fine with it," Craig had always had these layers of emotions in his eyes, and if I bothered I could read them all. He was lying, but what he was saying was what he wanted to be the truth. He was convincing himself that everything was okay, but I never dreamed of how wrong it was.

Now, shaking, sobbing, and pulling away from any touch, I wondered how I didn't see.

"C'mon," I said, gently leading him to the car. Sean was looking down, the worry firmly in his eyes. I felt for Sean. He'd just met Craig earlier this week at school. I'd known Craig for years, since he was seven years old. He'd always been a complicated, deceptive little kid. You never really knew what he was thinking. And I knew the effect his father had on people, on Julia and myself. What effect has he had on Craig?

He didn't move at first, wouldn't look at me or Sean. Spaced out. The tears and sobs were slowing down, little hitches of his chest and involuntary breaths were all that were left of the storm. I put my arm around his shoulders and felt the muscles tight as wires, and I lead him to the car.

Sean got in the back seat, so clearly wanting to be somewhere else that it was almost funny. He kept licking his lips and glancing out of the corners of his eyes. Craig got in the front seat, looking nervous and more alert as the crying stopped completely.

"Are you bringing me home?" he said, not looking at me, looking just to the side of my face. Sean was staring at his sneakers in the backseat.

"No. No. You can come home with me," I said, and for the first time since we saw him at his mother's grave he seemed to relax.

I pulled along the curb beside my house and turned the ignition off. I felt lost. It was one foot in front of the other time.

"C'mon," I said, to both of them. Sean bolted from the car, jogged up the steps and waited for Emma to open the door. Craig blinked slowly, looking unsure of where he was and what was going on. As I watched him he reached for the door handle and stepped out of the car.

Emma and Sean were looking at me expectantly. Craig was standing near the stairs, his arms wrapped around himself, looking down. Before I could deal with him I'd have to deal with Emma and Sean. Sean had taken the stance of avoidance, and he was edging toward the kitchen. Emma had that look on her face, the concerned, half righteous save the animals look and she headed for Craig.

"Craig! Are you alright!"

He swung his head toward her slowly and nodded, and I gestured for her to come away from him.

"Emma, thanks for watching Angie," I said, thinking of her mother at her age, her wild spiky hair and her 'don't mess with me' attitude. I thought how I sometimes felt like I was still that age.

"Of course," she said, "no problem,"

"Maybe you should call your mom, have her come and pick you up, maybe give Sean a ride home?" I said, and she glanced over at Craig. He was still hugging himself, looking down at the floor.

"Yeah, sure," she said, and she whipped out her cell phone and speed dialed her mother.

"Mom," she said, "Joey and Sean found him. Yeah. Can you come pick us up?"

We waited in a kind of limbo for Spike to come. These two needed to leave, but I didn't know what I would do when they did. Should I question Craig, find out the truth of things? Would that be too much for him? And this suicide attempt, in front of a train. Should I bring him to a hospital? I took a deep breath when I heard Spike's car pull up behind mine. I didn't know what the hell to do.

They said goodbye to Craig, Sean uncomfortable, Emma looking sympathetic. They bounded down the walk and got in her car, and she waved to me. I waved back and watched them pull away, and then I turned my attention to this troubled boy who was suddenly in my living room, in my life.

"Craig," I said, and he jumped a little at his name and looked at me.

"Come here. Sit down," I gestured to the couch and he came slowly and sat.

"How bad is it?" I said, not knowing if I was ready to hear this.

"Bad," he said, choking on the word, not looking at me.

"He hurts you?" I said, peering at him, seeing the tears welling up again. He nodded and they spilled over.

"What does he do?" I said. I knew he hit him. But I had to know exactly what was going on. I had to have some clue of how I should proceed. And he didn't answer. He looked away, wiped his tears. I waited. Nothing. I closed my eyes. Julia. I could feel her near me. She was willing me to help him. I'd always felt closer to her, after she died, when Craig was around. Maybe she wasn't hovering near me, but him.

"Craig," I said, and reached out to grab his shoulder. He jerked away like he did in the cemetery. I shouldn't have grabbed him but frustration was welling up in me like the tears in his eyes. I wanted to help, I didn't know how.

"Craig," I said softly, "I can't help you unless I know exactly what is going on,"

Truth time. How often in life do you ever know exactly what is going on? There are all these clandestine thoughts and reasons backing up every action and reaction. Albert is hurting him and it's bad, what more do I need to know?

He looked over at me, licked his lips and sighed, and then he turned his head away. I watched as he grabbed the edge of the button up shirt he was wearing and pulled it up, up over his rib cage and I saw. There were fresh bruises, purples and blues, laying over the older ones, fading yellows and greens. He held the shirt up for a few seconds, letting me take it in. It was what Angie said, 'I saw, all purple,'

"Oh my God," I said, breathing the words out. He let the shirt fall, covering the bruises again. My mind raced. How long? Was this happening when Julia left him with Albert? Did it start after? Did Albert turn his anger and hatred of her and me to him?

And then the words came, pleading, beseeching, asking me to understand.

"I'm a terrible kid, Joey. I make my dad angry,"

I blinked. He thought it was his fault, or some part of him thought that. I felt this flash of anger at Albert. How could he do this to his own son? Craig was smart, creative, kind and caring. That was what I had seen when Julia was alive. He was a good kid, and now he believed that he deserved to be beaten because he was a terrible kid? Albert had not only hurt his body but warped his mind, and now I was supposed to deal with this? Fix it?

"You're not a terrible kid," I said, a weak protest. I didn't know. What did abused kids think? And when did this start? When he was seven? When his mother died, when he was 11? Was it more recent? How long had he believed that he was this terrible kid deserving to be hit? My slight words of encouragement were nothing against years of violence and fear and abuse. I was out of my league and I knew it.

"I am. I am. I deserve it,"


	2. Chapter 2

He was asleep, on the couch. I watched him. He was curled up under the afghan my mom had made for me and Ang last Christmas. Even asleep he looked upset. I hadn't known what to do to comfort him. Being Italian, my instinct was to throw food at him, but he wasn't hungry. And I'd noticed that he was skinny, tall and all bones.

Watching him breathe, the deep sleep inhalations and exhalations, I vowed that he wouldn't go back to his father. No. I wouldn't let that happen. I shrugged, hugged myself for comfort and wondered who I was doing this for. For him? Or for Julia?

I poured myself a glass of red wine and sat at the kitchen table to contemplate my plan of action. The spare room that I'd been thinking of turning into something, a play room for Ang, an office for me, whatever, I could turn that into a bedroom for him. It wouldn't be that bad. Angie would love having him here. I felt a little uncertain about it. I'd rebuilt my world since Julia died. There was me and there was Angie. There was Snake and Spike on the weekends, me at their house or them over here. There were dates with younger women who all looked the same, tall and leggy and dark haired. They all looked like models and they all lasted about a month or two. There was my wine and my occasional marijuana and there was my daughter and my old friends and my dates, my quick excitements who wouldn't last. There wasn't a troubled teenage boy, one with issues I couldn't even contemplate. Abused. Suicidal. So he was probably anxious and depressed, his self-esteem must be in a tail-spin. I swirled my wine in my glass and listened to Craig breathe, took a deep breath. Shit.

I sipped the last of the wine and set the glass on the counter, tip toed past the couch and up the stairs to bed.

I woke up early, before dawn. Since Julia died I always awoke that early. I never got to the deeper layers of sleep anymore. I could hear the birds outside and I could see that funny pre-dawn sky, the deep aquamarine. I was tired but restless, wakeful. There was no sense in delaying it. I threw the covers back and slipped into my robe and slippers, tying the fraying belt around me, shuffling downstairs to start the coffee and the pancakes for Angie and now Craig. Somehow or other, I knew, he had become a part of our lives again.

He was still asleep on the couch, curled into himself. When I happened to sleep on the couch I'd wake up with my back aching. He'd probably be fine, he was too young for that. I laughed. I was 31. That wasn't all that old, but it felt it. It felt it everyday. Sometimes I felt ancient. The wine from last night tasted sour in my mouth. I opened the can of coffee and inhaled, always liking the aroma of coffee. It brought back memories of slow Sunday mornings with Julia, drinking cup after cup of our favorite flavored coffees.

I heard Angie on the stairs, and I saw her look questioningly at the couch. We didn't usually have people asleep on it in the morning. His face was covered by the blanket.

"Who is it?" she whispered to me, and I stirred the pancake batter.

"Craig," I whispered back.

"Craig?" she said, a half-question, half-squeal. She went over to him, pulling the afghan back to reveal his sleeping face.

"Craig!" she said, shaking him. He moaned and turned away. His shirt had pulled up in his sleep and I could see the bruises, the dark black and blue slighted faded now.

"Hey," he said, sitting up, blinking sleepily. He tugged his shirt down, covering the evidence, "what's up, kid?"

"What are you doing here?" Angie said, sitting next to him. I held my hand over the pan to see if it was hot enough. I felt the heat and poured the batter onto it, watching the small circle of batter spread. I wondered how Craig would answer her question.

"I stayed here last night," he said.


	3. Chapter 3

I made them breakfast and watched Angie scarf it down, watched Craig pick at it. I thought of Albert as I poured my coffee and dumped sugar into it. Was he going out of his mind with worry? Did he think Craig was just off at some friend's house, cooling down, and would return?

Angie went upstairs after breakfast. She'd color up there or play with her dolls, then she'd nag me to bring her to the park. And I would. And I'd watch her play on the swings and go down the slide and I'd miss Julia with this pang that wrenched at me. I didn't think this grief would ever end. I just rode it out now, like a surfer thrown from his board and with the mouthful of sea salt hopes the wave crashes him on the beach and not further out to sea. I rode it out like the craving for nicotine when you quit smoking.

Craig brought his dish to the sink, and it didn't look like he ate anything. I rinsed the dishes and stacked them in the dishwasher, sipped my coffee, trying to keep busy. Craig sat at the table, and he cleared his throat in that way that meant he was going to say something that was hard for him.

"My dad's gonna expect me to be home today," he said, a strangely vague statement.

"Yeah," I said, seeing those bruises on his rib cage and stomach, knowing that he couldn't go back there.

"Uh, I had to take off yesterday because I thought, I don't know,"

I turned around and looked at him, saw the anxiety in his eyes. I equated this whole thing to me and Angie. I would never hit her, never hurt her. I'd yell. I have yelled, and I didn't feel great about it. Kids couldn't just do whatever they wanted, I mean, discipline had its place. But this was different. With Craig and Albert, this was beyond discipline.

"You thought what?" I said, sitting at the table, cradling my coffee cup in my hands.

"I thought he was gonna kill me,"

I closed my eyes, wondering how it could come to this. I thought of that kid I knew back in junior high, the one who was getting beat by his father. I remembered going over there that one day, wanting that cool jean jacket he had because my mother wrecked mine. His dad, he was just so angry, it was this intensity I'd never seen before. My own parents were calm, laid back, not really given to that kind of anger. This kid's father, he bristled with it. It crackled around him. It was like gunpowder waiting to explode. Albert was like that.

"You thought what?" I said, wanting him to repeat it, wanting to get it, wanting to know because I had to know. If I was going to take him from Albert I had to know, "what happened?"

"Uh, he was chasing after me, he had this golf club, and I ran up the stairs and locked my bedroom door and he tapped on the door with the golf club. I was packing a bag and talking to Sean on the phone, trying to sound normal, you know?" He laughed then, and I guessed he never felt normal. Who did, though? There was no normal.

"So then I wouldn't let him in and he starts, he slammed the golf club into the door, and it went through, and if I stayed he would have slammed the golf club into me,"

Jesus. I stared at him, and the moment went on.

"Daddy!" Angie called from above our heads, and the spell was broken, but I knew now. I knew how bad it was. He couldn't go back there.

"Okay," I said quietly. Okay.

I went upstairs, kissed Angie and tousled her hair, took a shower, closing my eyes in the hot steam. I'd go to the park with my daughter and I'd try to have a normal day for her. And I'd call my dead wife's ex-husband and tell him that he's lost his son.


End file.
